


Cicadas Song

by thesecretdoor



Category: Hey! Say! JUMP, グラスホッパー | Grasshopper (2015)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Cutting, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disturbing Themes, Fucked Up, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Knives, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Instability, Mild Smut, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Murder, Narcissism, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Psychopathology & Sociopathy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22032307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdoor/pseuds/thesecretdoor
Summary: It’s been what it has been, and it hasn’t been bad. But now it’s time, because Chinen needs something new, he misses being showered in expensive courting gifts, he wants to be desired and pursued again, he needs the praise and the flattery, and the declarations of love, to drown the ringing in his ears.There’s something wrong with him, he’s well aware of it, because he’s as smart as he is attractive and he knew the words Narcissistic Personality Disorder long before his first marriage at eighteen. He understood his own symptoms long before that.
Relationships: Chinen Yuri/Yamada Ryosuke
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: JUMPing Fic Carnival 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [h_itoshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/h_itoshi/gifts).



It’s time, Chinen decides, laying on his back with his legs spread wide. The burn back there has subsided now but his cheekbone still stings something terrible, he might even wake up with a black eye. 

His ears are ringing, in that fuzzy, detached way they do when he’s growing dissatisfied. It makes him agitated, it makes him snappy, short-tempered. It makes him fight back and that’s when the violence starts, and that’s when he knows it’s time.

It hasn’t been a bad run, better than the last one anyway, the ringing only really started a few months ago, even if the drinking had started long before, before he even met Chinen. And in the four years they’ve been married Chinen has never been left to want for anything. 

Chinen, for his part, has been a good husband too, he’s never said no, never been ‘too tired’. Chinen isn’t dumb, he knows exactly why stinking rich old men marry beautiful young men, half their age.

It’s been what it has been, and it hasn’t been bad. But now it’s time, because Chinen needs something new, he misses being showered in expensive courting gifts, he wants to be desired and pursued again, he needs the praise and the flattery, and the declarations of love, to drown the ringing in his ears. 

There’s something wrong with him, he’s well aware of it, because he’s as smart as he is attractive and he knew the word Narcissistic Personality Disorder long before his first marriage at eighteen. He understood his own symptoms long before that, before his seniors in the gymnastics club called him cute and fawned over him, before he wriggled into their laps and let them cuddle him far too tight to be entirely innocent, because the attention felt good.

This doesn’t feel good any more, even with his hand wrapped around his dick, tugging rhythmically. Gone are those early days when his husband would be so turned on by him he’d sometimes come before he’d even gotten it inside, now it’s hours of sloppy rutting and the smell of whiskey on his lips. Gone are the gentle caresses over his jaw and the soft words about how beautiful his lips look, more often now it’s a hard fist and a welt that lasts for days, marring his perfect, plastic smile.

It’s time, and so the next morning he dials the number long since memorised, because he’s not stupid enough to keep it saved in his phone. His request is a simple one “Make it look like suicide, no guns.” It was a gun last time, they sent a man by the name of ‘Bullet’, and a single shot to the temple left his first husband dead.

He wasn’t there the last time, he took a trip home to visit his parents, but three days in the middle of summer did his first husbands body no favours, nor the bedroom carpet which Chinen never did manage to wash the stench out of. This time he wants to be there, to call it in earlier. Besides, he’s very aware of how suspicious he will look – two husbands committing suicide in the space of a few years – even without him being conveniently elsewhere both times.

No, this time he’s here to open the door on the young man he was told is known as ‘Semi’ even if he doesn’t greet him as he holds the door open.

“He’s in the bath.” Chinen whispers, low and tight lipped.

There’s a short quick nod as the young man moves through the entryway, then sharp onyx eyes flicking over the large parlour, precise almost to the point of looking skittish and Chinen can only assume he’s assessing the situation as his head cocks to the side, listening keenly.

He doesn’t look how Chinen might have expected him to look, if he’d really had any kind of expectation, but he’d figured maybe black clothes, hat, face mask. He’d figured unobtrusive, inconspicuous, nondescript. Nothing about the man in front of him is unobtrusive, not the loud pattern printed on his baggy pants, nor the bright yellow shirt. Not the flashy silver-blonde hair or those dark, piercing eyes. God is he beautiful.

“You going to watch?” the man murmurs lowly and even his voice is beautiful, a low gravelly rumble that leaves Chinen strangely speechless as he shakes his head. There’s another slight nod and then a breath, “Suicide yeah?” before he turns to stalk along the adjoining hallway.

Chinen didn’t plan on watching, but as he watches Semi round the corner he feels strangely compelled to follow. He follows quickly after the quiet, hurried steps, up the stairs, along another corridor, knowing the way without even being shown and then Semi is standing, listening intently once again at the bathroom door.

And then it opens. Chinen watches him enter, hears a loud splash and darts along the hall himself, catches himself on the door frame just in time to see Semi pinning his husband to the side of the bath, hands flailing, pink water splashing everywhere as blood sprays from the open wound across his throat.

He looks from the deep cut to Semi’s face, is startled by the softness of it, eyes closed almost in relief as crimson coats his features, drips from his eyelashes and the tips of his painted red hair.

When the body beneath his hand goes limp, blood pumping much slower from the fatal gash, Semi’s lips part, a soft moan escaping them as the switch-blade in his hand drops to the tiled floor and his hand raises to wipe the fluid from his face. 

The noise goes straight to Chinen’s crotch and a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding leaves him with a stuttered rush, leaves him panting, heart thumping wildly against his ribcage. He can’t remember ever feeling so lucid, so alive.

With another soft groan, Semi’s eyes open, looking hungrily over the carnage in front of him before he reaches out with both hands to scoop up some of the quickly darkening bathwater to rinse his face. Chinen watches with his lip tucked into his teeth as rose coloured water spills over his hands, cascading down his thick, muscular neck to soak into the shirt, no longer yellow, against his rapidly expanding chest. He knew there was something wrong with him, but this, this is fucked up, because Chinen can’t remember ever feeling as turned on either.

He tries to make sense of it as he watches Semi work, rearranging slack limbs, cleaning certain patches of blood and water, wiping his fingerprints from the blade before pressing a cold hand around it to imprint a different set upon it. It doesn’t make sense, all he knows is that when Semi finally brushes past him out of the room, he desperately doesn’t want him to go.

“Your money.” he calls down the stairs after him, hating the way his voice is so breathless, so whiny. Semi turns back to look at him, eyeing the manilla envelope Chinen had swiped from the bedroom on his way past, almost as though it’s an afterthought. It makes him turn though, meeting Chinen at the bottom of the stairs and holding out his hand. “If I can keep it.” Chinen says, trying for his usual seduction but finding still only desperation. “I’ll let you fuck me.” He _wants_ to be fucked.

Semi eyes him for a moment, expression unreadable. “Not interested in fucking you.” his quiet voice mumbles, it doesn’t sound entirely unaffected though, the edge of adrenaline still audible, visible in the way his tongue swipes quickly over his lips. “And only 80% of it is mine.”

He doesn’t move away, doesn’t make a move to take the money either, as his eyes roam Chinen’s face. After what feels like endless, frozen seconds, he reaches up to swipe at Chinen’s cheek with a calloused thumb that comes away bloody. He hadn’t realised he’d been standing close enough, there was a lot of splashing though. 

How the blood got there doesn’t matter, what matters is the way Semi’s eyes smoulder at the sight of it. “I’ll let you cut me.” Chinen offers instead, voice cracking over the words. “I keep the 80% and you can cut me, as much as you want as long as I’ll survive.”

There’s definite interest in Semi’s eyes now, Chinen thinks, hopes maybe, even a flicker of arousal. But after another long, tension heavy, silence, Semi breaks it by reaching out for the envelope, flicking through the bills inside as he says. “You’ve just found your husband dead, you should probably call the police.” Before he turns to leave though, Semi reaches out for Chinen’s hand with his own, placing a stack of the bills back into Chinen’s hand and Chinen guesses if he counted it, he’d find 80% of it there.

He should call the police, but he can’t focus enough to, not before dropping to the floor right there, heart still beating erratically, adrenaline still alight in his veins, bills scattering to the floor around him as he pushes a hand into his pants and comes harder than he ever has before.

He picks the money up hours later, after dragging himself upstairs to bed, after a few hours of fitful sleep, of dreams of dark eyes and silver hair, of skin slick with sweat and blood, bodies writhing together on a bed of red-tinged notes.

It wasn’t about the money, he thinks even as he gathers it together, he doesn’t really need it, it was just a knee-jerk reaction, the usual deal, his body in exchange for money. He didn’t even want the money this time and that thought intrigues him – it’s been a long time since he’s really wanted something other than money and material possessions, or praise and adoration. He wants Semi though, wants his switch-blade, wants that rush of excitement back.

It’s an ambulance he calls, once he’s stashed the cash in a bedroom drawer and changed his clothes. He knows it’s too late, the bathwater turned cold hours ago, and his husband with it, he’s seen enough movies though, enough documentaries, to know that it’s an ambulance he should call. He knows he should sound distraught and panicked, sobbing down the line even as he tells them no, there’s no pulse, yes, he’s cold to the touch, no, he can’t be dead, _please_ , he _can’t_ be.

They arrive within minutes, and Chinen makes sure he’s appropriately unhinged, congealed blood and bathwater soaking his shirt, his eyes raw from crying. He pleads with the coroners the same as he did with the paramedics when they arrived. Pleads with his dead husband too, one cold, puffy hand clutched in his as he swears he won’t ever fight back again, he’ll be good, even as dusting of greeny-purple still blooms around his eye.

He’d been pronounced dead on arrival, there’s no need for Chinen to go with them to the hospital and he assures them, just stuttering gasps of breath by now, that yes, there’s someone he can call, he won’t be alone.

He dries his eyes and takes a few long, steady breaths to ease the double breathing left over from his crocodile tears. And then he makes his way back along to the bathroom. The police had already come by, somewhere between the paramedics and the coroners, to snap a few pictures, take a few things – the switch-blade for one – into evidence, so it’s safe for him to clean up now. 

It’s easier than the last time, because it’s only hard surfaces the blood touched and it was diluted by bathwater, but Chinen does frown a little as he has to take mild bleach to his pristine marble tub to erase the last of the stains.

It’s easier, but it’s also harder, because the entire time, Chinen can barely focus on anything but the soft groans of pleasure as blood had spattered Semi’s skin. By the time he’s done, his blood is racing again and he steps into the walk-in waterfall shower across from the crime scene and sets it to cold to shake himself out of it.

A grief councillor comes to visit, Chinen expected as much, and once the funeral is out of the way he starts weekly group therapy sessions just like the last time. He’s reluctant at first, but only on the outside, it’s all part of the manipulation because he loves these sessions, he loves the sympathy and the gentle words, the praise about how well he’s doing, how brave he is when he finally starts to open up. 

And then he really lays it on, then starts the anguished self-blame, the sobbing about what’s wrong with him that two people he loved would rather die than be with him. He loves watching their hearts break for him, hear the wobble in their voices as they assure him it’s not his fault, he’s the victim here. And he likes that, he likes being the victim.

But even that must come to an end, because as much as he likes it, it’s just part of the facade, an expensive and mentally exhausting part of the facade, so four months from his husbands suicide he’s given the all clear to work on his grief alone, and that’s exactly what he finds he is, alone.

It doesn’t usually bother him, Chinen has never been one for friends and relationships, these marriages were never about love or connections. They were about money, about luxury, a job Chinen thought of them as most of the time, and there’s enough left in the will that he can keep going for a little while without finding another one. 

Still, it’s a huge empty house, full of strange creaks and eerie quiet, and there’s still a stack of money in the drawer beside his bed, an unfulfilled promise. And every strange creak has Chinen’s heart racing, he finds himself straining to hear silent footsteps over the ringing in his ears. 

When he sleeps he does so in fits and starts, roused from dark dreams of silver blonde and glittering onyx by his own agitated breaths, his blood singing with adrenaline, the ringing deafening. Some nights he gets up from his bed to wander naked through the empty house only to return to bed with a knife in hand, to cut a long slice along his own palm.

The ringing stops, the sound replaced by his breathy moans as he watches deep red run down his arm, burning his skin, heat pooling in his groin as he wraps the slick hand around himself and strokes quickly. For hours afterwards he lays awake, trying to figure out what this is about, this preoccupation with blood, with Semi.

Trauma seems like the obvious answer, because he did watch his husband being brutally murdered and that should be traumatic. But Chinen didn’t feel anything but excitement and arousal, didn’t feel anything at all for so long before that.

They gave him sleeping pills, back when his therapy started, but he didn’t take them, he enjoyed the images of spattering blood that painted his sleep. Now he takes them, because the excitement turns too quickly to frustration, to anger, because he kept the money, the 80% they agreed and he’s counted it a hundred times, but still Semi hasn’t come to claim his end of the bargain.

So he takes just one of the little blue capsules, as prescribed, and then another before he settles down in bed. 

The dreams still come, scattered fragments of silver and crimson, but Chinen can’t wake himself with the stuttered gasps that gurgle up his throat. Even as he feels the weight of someone straddling his hips, the chill of the night air against his exposed skin, as he strains to hear the rumble of a low gravel voice. As he tries to make out a silhouette against the crack of light filtering in under his bedroom door, even though he knows his eyes won’t open.

He’s paralysed by the depth of sleep, but still he feels the sharp sting and lingering burn as metal slices his flesh like butter, he still feels the heat in his groin, burning hotter as the body above him shifts, grinding down against his bared erection.

Each cut scorches him as it tears him apart, and silent hisses turn to silent cries as each one spurs the hips against his faster. And then the cries turn to screams as the pressure inside builds too quickly for the slices against his skin to alleviate it. He begs for more, deeper, but the words have no voice and he can do nothing but wait in blissful agony for the pleasure to peak, his frozen muscles convulsing as orgasm rocks through him and the blade keeps on dancing over his skin.

He wakes slowly, to morning sun outside his window, his throat feels raw and his skin sticky beneath his sheets. It’s the colour that catches his eye, deep crimson, and with his pulse quickening he pulls back the covers to stare at the tangle of red lines littering his chest and stomach, some still oozing weakly to mix with pearly white release, switch-blade still held tight in one hand. 

There’s a familiar ringing in his ears but as he inhales slowly, remnants of pain fluttering over his chest, he realises it’s just the sound of the cicadas singing.


	2. All In the Eyes

He finds himself outside that house, again. He doesn't know why - he has places to be after all, people to kill... 

But he does know. 

He knows why he's here, even though the people he has to kill are on the other side of town. 

Inspiration.

That's the word he's using. 

It’s the only one he's comfortable with using - because Semi doesn't need anyone, doesn't _want_ anyone. 

He's just inspired.

He remembers cold dark eyes. 

He's seen dead eyes, more times than he can count. Dead and glassy, and endlessly staring. 

But he's never seen anything like _those_ eyes.

_"If I can keep it, you can fuck me."_

Fuck me. The concept is almost alien. It's not like he doesn't have urges, sure he does - despite what he does, he _is_ human after all. 

But he's never fucked anyone, not in that way at least.

But those eyes.

_"I'll let you cut me"_

Semi wonders; with eyes that empty, if he even bleeds. 

Semi wants to know. He wants to taste the colour of it. 

But he doesn't _want_. 

_Didn't_ want. 

And yet he left the money.

And here he is outside that house, again. And he doesn't know why...

He does know why...

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Anna, I'm sure you already figured out who wrote you this treat. I hope you liked it, I'm glad I finally finished a creepy Yamada Assassin story for you, and thank you for being as dark and twisted as I am! Also I'm sorry that it (entirely coincidentally!!) ended up a bit like the treat fic you already got :(


End file.
